Tick, Tock

by Sarah Artis

Tick, tock. Two minutes gone by. Tick, tock. One hour and thirteen minutes until lunch. Tick, tock. Why doesn't that kid stop crying already? Tick, tock. Only three and three-quarter days until the weekend and thank god, I can stop pretending to like buttoning up polyester shirts, beige slacks, pastel cardigans and practical loafers. Tick tock.

"Oh hi! Isn't your little boy cute? How can I help you?" My voice reminds me of jello--it's so sweet it makes me sick.

"You can handle it Joanie, you can," I tell myself. "You only have a little while longer until your cheek muscles can relax from grinding a plastic smile into your face."

My workday, similar to the average person's, is only eight hours long. That is eight hours long! Of course, that is minus one thirty-minute and two fifteen-minute breaks for lunch and coffee. Although "break time" is typically as gut-wrenching as the rest of the day, I've started to notice. I'm usually stuck with Miranda, my 34-year-old co-worker who holds her pants together with a safety pin and still hairsprays her bangs straight up like a tidal wave crashing into her face.

I tell myself I can handle it. Really. Half a day more of the painful reality of my life as a kids' toy store cashier is manageable. Isn't it? Did I mention that I hate kids?

You are probably thinking that I was one of those ungrateful adolescents who dyed her hair black, smudged black eye shadow over her lids and skipped class to hang out behind the bleachers. Or if I did attend the scholarly preachings, I always sat in the back with a frown dripping molasses to the floor and grunted at roll call. Well, you are wrong.

Actually, I was high school class president and my grades were never under a B+. I went to five proms, looked dashing in all five dresses and even went to university. I was once called an overachiever. I'm averagely pretty and at one time was easygoing, lighthearted and funny if I didn't try too hard.

At university, instead of "slacking off" and doing what my heart throbbed for--international studies, women's studies, Spanish--I took the responsible road. I didn't drop out of my commerce program even though I considered freedom for sanity's sake more days than I didn't. I even got scholarships and awards for being a student full of potential and having a positive attitude. Once, this blonde bobbed head of mine had visions of changing the corporate world for the greater good. Unfortunately, the only world I've managed to change so far is the Muppets miniature world in our display window. Maybe it counts. I do get to change their outfits every week.

What I don't understand is that according to millions of internet, newspaper and magazine articles, I did all of the "top 10 things one MUST do to get a job." I networked; I customized every resume and cover letter; I "informationally interviewed" like a madwoman, filling my schedule with sophisticated meetings rather than quality reality-TV watching. I acted--and sometimes was--genuinely passionate about the jobs I applied for. But somehow, I'm here.

Shame on me and shame on you, I say to the all the parents who fill their big-eared, big-hearted and hopeful kids' heads with the ridiculous notion that "they can do anything they put their minds to." You probably think that your daughter or son is slacking off, don't you? They can't possibly be trying that hard to look for a job. You know they are just pretending and in the meantime are making a sport of transferring leftovers into their stomachs and onto the buttons of the remote control.

You may be right. There is a great possibility, however, that you are wrong.

It is true that many kids enter university as a result of parental or peer pressure in addition to lack of knowing about anything else in the world. Yet, by the time we graduate and have reached adulthood, or at least "young adulthood," most of us have gained at least a sprinkling of ambition and high enough expectations of ourselves to want to find a good job. Whether "good" is high-paying, meaningful, or simply stable depends entirely on the person. But it most always means that university was not a total waste.

Finding a job in this new "world of opportunity" is more difficult than you might think, though. The endless choices can spin your head. Then, once you finally choose a course to chart, it is not always easy to get your foot in the door. The constant negative responses made me feel like I was little schoolyard Joanie again, made to feel as though I didn't exist because my shoes were laced instead of fastened with ultra cool Velcro.

First, I thought there was something wrong with my computer, but London Drugs checked it out with a clean bill of health. Second, I pondered whether the time of year, September, was unpopular for hiring. Turns out it was actually once of the best times to look. Then my thoughts took an awkward turn. (Personally I think this was one of the early indicators of my starting to lose it!) Was there some type of conspiracy against human resources employees? Were they all gathered onto a bus in the middle of the night and dumped into the river to wash away into non-existence, where of course they couldn't answer their emails or return phone messages?

Finally, it hit me. Something was wrong with me.

I truly, madly, deeply started to believe I was a total failure and my parents--for the first time in their lives, bad timing--decided to support my beliefs. This might have been a nice gesture if the issue was Santa Claus, but my whole sense of self was at stake. The little girl with pink-ribbon pigtails who always smiled in her pictures no longer could.

It took a while for me to figure out that I was depressed. Mostly because one, I never though it could happen to me; and two, compared to Joe, the leper I met in India who had no hands or feet and rolled through the streets of New Delhi on a piece of wood with wheels begging for one or two rupees to feed his deaf daughter, my life wasn't too hard to swallow. I had food, shelter, and water. I had loving friends and family, even a boyfriend. I still laughed sometimes too. But when my bitter thoughts and, I swear, the devil, made me want to rip out the throat of the sweetest little old lady who brings my parents plums every second Tuesday, I realized it was true.

Tick, tock. Three minutes gone by.

After a long and trying job search, the question "What career will fulfill me?" spun into "Is accomplishing absolutely nothing all day more or less depressing than working an $8.25/hour job that at least lets me buy a Red Robin Monster Mud Ice Cream Pie every couple of weeks?" Tick, tock. I chose Ice Cream pie.

The Author

Sarah Artis is lost and has only recently accepted that she will never be found. She has spent the past few years living, working, travelling and struggling for money all over the world, seeking adventure, wisdom and feelings of peace. Temporarily settled in her hometown, Vancouver, Canada, Sarah hopes to graduate with a certificate in journalism in April 2006.